Washington at night shimmered like a lie. The White House glowed under the dark sky—a monument pretending to be mercy. Lacolone adjusted his collar, eyes fixed on the fortress of democracy.
"Every empire falls," Maya whispered beside him. "Tonight, we remind them."
Their forged IDs passed the checkpoint. A green light flickered. The lie lived another second.
Inside, marble halls stretched under portraits of presidents whose painted eyes followed them. Maya murmured, "Haunted faces. All painted murderers."
"Every smiling frame hides a continent's worth of corpses," Lacolone replied.
A staffer guided them toward the conference chamber, unaware of the ghosts walking in his midst.
The President entered—a polished grin and hollow eyes. To the world, he was power. To Lacolone, he was a mask.
"You sit on bones and call them bricks," Lacolone said quietly.
Secret Service agents lunged, but Maya moved before they blinked. Guns clattered. Papers flew. In moments, silence.
Lacolone slammed the President against his desk. "You're a pawn," he hissed.
The man gasped, trembling. "You don't understand… I had no choice."
Maya's voice cut through: "You had choices. Children had none."
"How many mountains of bodies for your influence?" Lacolone growled. "How many rivers of blood for your luxury?"
"We protected democracy—"
"You bomb villages for oil," he snapped. "You kill prophets for profit. Democracy is your mask."
The President's mask cracked. Sweat and fear replaced arrogance. "It's not me—it's the cabal. The cult. We are all puppets."
"Then name them," Lacolone demanded.
"The saints… the thirty-third degree," the man whispered. "We sold the world for their plan."
"9/11… Epstein… Malcolm X… all threads," he mumbled, breaking down. "Sacrifices to keep the order alive."
Maya pressed record. Lacolone's gaze sharpened. "Finally," he said. "You bleed truth."
"The saints. The cabal. The architects of the new world order," the man confessed, voice fading to ash.
Lacolone looked down on him—disgusted. "Even kings bow when their crowns are borrowed."
He raised a blade of soul-light. Maya's breath caught. But Lacolone only lowered it again. "Your death means nothing. Your confession means everything."
Maya opened a drawer. Inside—black drives marked 9/11, Epstein, Malcolm X. She slid them into a bag.
"The world will know," Lacolone said.
They left the room as alarms whispered to life. Outside, the night wind was colder.
"We should've ended him," Maya said.
"The truth will kill him louder than we ever could."
At the safehouse, the drives clinked on the table.
"We'll release it," Lacolone said. "Every file. Every tape. Let the world face its own monster."
"And when chaos follows?"
"Then at least it's honest chaos."
Across the globe, encrypted pings reached Revolutionary HQs. Valgor's grin returned. Jessica murmured, "The storm just changed direction."
In the distance, Elito's shadow smiled from unseen screens.
Lacolone stared through the window at the Capitol's dome.
"You humiliated him," Maya said softly. "Why not kill him?"
"I want him to live long enough to watch his empire rot."
"Hatred kills men," the narration whispered. "Justice kills legacies."
News anchors screamed White House Breach—President Shamed. Protests erupted. Governments fractured.
And somewhere, Elito's voice slithered through static: "Exactly as planned."
Lacolone and Maya stood atop the skyline, Washington burning faintly below them, the drives heavy in their hands.
"They carry not weapons, but worlds of buried truth," the final line read.
"And truth, when spoken, is the most terrifying weapon of all."